


When the sky becomes red

by Atanih88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, post first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:43:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have time to kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the sky becomes red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kellifer_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellifer_fic/gifts).



> Dear kellifer_fic, I'm sad to say I had 3k of zombie apoca-fic for you. And then my laptop died before I could finish it. I was determined though, to write you a gift-fic by Christmas so I have. I hope that you enjoy it, even if just a little. I've tried for a mix of your prompts :) wish you all the best and happy holidays! ♥

They have a tree.

It's tucked up against a corner of the mainly open room, filling it with the smell of pines. Its sweetness stays strong even over the smell of the onions sizzling in the frying pan. It quiets down some when Dean adds in the whisked eggs and ham, the smell changing, warm and comforting. It makes his mouth water a bit.

He doesn't remember the last time he had time to cook. Before purgatory maybe—with Lisa and Ben. His left shoulder and arm are one big ache. The pain makes him wince even though his movements are small. It's a days old wound though, a poltergeist they'd bumped into on their way here. Funny those things were still going strong. The bastards.

The motel is quiet. No car doors slamming outside, no engines running. No neighbors having noisy sex or yelling at each other. It makes sense. Everyone else is on the road, trying to make it out. Or there are those who are just trying to make it home on time.

He takes a second, eyes on the still raw top of the omelette, gooey and a touch jelly like and then flips it. The sizzling gets louder, hissing and spitting in his ears as he shakes the pan over the flames.

The door to the bathroom opens and when he looks, Sam is stepping out, switching the light off and closing the door behind him. His hair is wet, too long and a little wavy from the water as it brushes along the tops of his shoulders. It leaves little wet spots on the grey t-shirt he's wearing. Like Dean, he's still barefoot. Although, Dean hasn't bothered much with clothes. He's standing there in boxers and a t-shirt that smells too much like Sam and sweat to be his. He doesn't mind. It's warm across his shoulders and falls just a little bit lower than any of his do. 

Sam's always been a big boy. 

The thought makes Dean clear his throat and shift, feels a touch of heat to his cheeks that has him frowning down at the omelettes as he reaches to switch off the stove. He manfully ignores the disconcerting ache in his ass, the way it throbs, a little deep, whenever he shifts. But the wetness is the worst, feels messy and silky at the same time. 

He's way too old for this crap. 

The fucked-up part is fine. That's been the story of his life since his mother died in a ceiling fire.

Sam's steps are quiet as he walks over to the kitchen. There's a looseness to his shoulders that hasn't been there since they'd found out today was the day. 

Since Sam left Dean in a shitty room in New Orleans for six days to tie up loose ends. To go back and tell someone else he'd loved them. And to say goodbye.

"I won't hold it against you, you know," Dean had said, still in bed, staring up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the edges of the tea colored stain over beige paint.

Sam had paused, one hand still inside his bag, in the process of stuffing in another shirt. He'd looked up at Dean, forehead lined, eyebrows up. "What?"

"You don't have to come back."

Sam stilled for a second and it had been silent enough that Dean had heard the kid crying two doors down, telling daddy he didn't want to go without mommy, the dad saying that mom wouldn't make it in time. There must've been a draft coming in from somewhere because his arms had gone up in goosebumps.

"Yes, you would," Sam had said, having gone back to packing.

Dean blinked, pulled his gaze away from the ceiling and watched him. "Would what?"

Sam zipped up his bag, flung it over a shoulder and straightened, shoulders squaring and looking Dean hard in the eyes. "Hold it against me. You would."

And despite the way his chest had felt, compressed as if someone were resting their full weight on it, Dean had sat up, rubbed his hands over his eyes and given Sam a quirk of his lips. "Yeah, well. I'll try not to." 

Because it would be okay. Sam would have what he needed and yeah, Dean would resent it, but he would have done his job right. There'd be a nice bottle of Jack to numb the edges a bit. Just like the good old days. Maybe even, if he were lucky, Heaven would let Cas go long enough for them to share a goodbye drink.

But Sam's mouth had taken on a pissed off flatness and he'd come to stand by the bed, towered over Dean and glared down at him. "Maybe that's what you expect me to do. But man, when are you going to get it?" He'd looked away, the sigh that left him heavy. "I wouldn't do that to you, Dean. Not when I know—not. Not when you're here. Just. Stay put. I only need a couple of days."

That had been two weeks ago. Six days later Sam had come back. They hadn't talked about it. They packed up the rest of their crap and moved on.

Now they're here.

Sam's a warm presence at his side, leaning back against the counter and popping two beers open as Dean puts the pan down between the two of them and hands him a fork.

The TV is on, and despite how ridiculous it is at a time like this, some network is playing Christmas hits. Dean thinks that sounds like Mariah Carey and debates pointing it out to Sam, just to see that blank look of horror on his face at the fact that Dean knows what it is.

Dean snorts and ignores the questioning look from Sam, takes a bite of the eggs instead and a drink of the beer. Sam follows suit.

Outside, it's dark even though it's only one in the afternoon. It has nothing to do with the snowfall that happened a couple of days ago. But that cold is still the same where it sneaks in through the cracks of the doorway and windows, a bitter iciness. The sky is different. It's like smoke, with a rusted red that peeks through now and then, like hell taking a look around the corner.

It's not really. It's just a part of whatever's happening up there and for once, it's not Hell related.

Dean crosses his feet at the ankles and eats.

"What do you want to do after this?" Sam asks around a mouthful.

Dean pauses, beer bottle halfway to his mouth and eyes the scruff on Sam's face. It's long. Like the time Sam was losing his mind. Dean can still feel the scratch of it on the nape of his neck, the curve of his shoulder and the bone of his shoulder blade where Sam had been gnawing at it, the scruff on his chin chafing at Dean's skin. Dean's sure that he's made enough bum jokes to last a lifetime.

"Dean?"

Dean blinks, shakes his head. "I don't know. Movies. Try and find us some pie to see us through." He shrugs. "Get you a shave and a haircut. Endless possibilities, Sammy."

"Right," Sam says, and Dean doesn't have to look at his face to know there's eye rolling going on right there.

Dean downs the rest of his beer and offers Sam the rest of the eggs. His palms feel sweaty now in a way that has nothing to do with having been at the stove for a while. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at the shitty lime green floor. What the hell were the owners on when they got this crap?

"I was thinking we could just, you know," Sam shrugs, scooping up the last of the eggs, "go back to bed."

Dean swallows, thumbs at the label on the beer, rubbing the condensation into it and feeling the paper come apart. He wonders, even now, if he can do it. Facing Sam. Be okay with doing it and seeing it at the same time—Sam over him. He'd grab his hair, he thinks; fist it with the press of Sam's hand over his throat.

And fuck, okay. He shuts his eyes. He's half-hard already.

The brush of Sam's thumb, coarse and teasing, rubs along the line of skin above his boxer briefs, the shift of Sam's hand making the t-shirt tickle along the dip of his spine. 

Mariah gets stopped in the middle of saying that she doesn't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree. She's replaced by the sound of breaking news and their anchorwoman. 

Sam's hand stills and they both listen.

She says the time to impact is five hours and twenty five minutes.

Dean stops listening after that. He curls his hand around Sam's wrist and tugs him closer. Dips his head, winds his other hand around the back of Sam's neck, still damp from the shower and he turns into him.

The end, huh.

He's not really sure how he feels about that. But then he opens his eyes and looks at Sam, finds Sam watching him right back, close enough that his breath falls warm and soft against Dean's cheek. And Sam's smiling, small and sad and all of a sudden Dean feels crushed.

He closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and presses his head hard enough that Sam's collarbone digs into his forehead. 

Then he fists Sam's shirt, holds him in place and bites down hard on that long stretch of neck, inhales the cheap apple scented soap and _Sam_. He grins bright and hard up at him, actually feels the smile when he sees the expression on Sam's face of half-stunned pleasure, Sam's cock digging into his stomach.

"Why not? Sounds like we've got some time to kill."

The End


End file.
